


Shotcaller

by summoninglupine



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Alcohol, F/F, Hotels, Worlds 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-16 20:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21042644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoninglupine/pseuds/summoninglupine
Summary: It's day three of Worlds 2019, the biggest event in the League of Legends calendar, and Eefje Depoortere is ready to blow off some steam.





	Shotcaller

She trembled slightly, her breath short. The other woman, taller than her, far more experienced than her, had been the whole reason she had the passion to do what she did, and, lest she forget, the whole reason she had her job at all. 

Two years ago now, she had asked the question, already steeling herself for the answer, the words heavy upon her lips: do you know, perhaps, maybe, if Riot might, maybe, perhaps, you know, need a hostess? Maybe, perhaps?

From behind the rim of her clear plastic glasses, Eefje Depoortere had offered her a knowing smile in reply.

I don’t know about Riot, but I _totally_ need a hostess, she had remarked, and Laure Valée, a head shorter than the other woman, her hair dark where Depoortere’s was blonde, had nervously realised she was being flirted with.

With surprising grace, Eefje Depoortere slapped her palm down on the bar.

“Another!” she cried out, her cheeks rosy red.

The younger woman regarded her hesitantly.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “What about work?”

Her expression flushed, Depoortere turned to her and smiled.

“It’s okay,” she remarked, her breath close and sweet smelling, like sugar and aniseed, “I’m shot calling.”

She laughed loudly, loud enough for everyone else in the hotel bar to hear them, and she reached across and gave Valée a playful shove.

“You get it?” she asked. “I’m shot calling? Like, you know, _shot_ calling.”

Valée nodded, adjusting her own glasses.

“I get it, I get it,” she smiled politely.

Another round was placed down before them, the bartender looking expectant, incapable of reading Depoortere’s indifference.

Valée sighed and opened her handbag, taking out her purse and pulling free the bright coral orange of her debit card.

“Oh, Laure! That’s sweet of you!” Depoortere grinned, leaning against the bar and winking flirtatiously. “You’d make a good boyfriend.”

The younger girl blushed furiously and averted her eyes, concentrating on placing her card against the reader offered by the bored bartender.

“I think I perhaps do not have the qualifications for that,” she mumbled with embarrassment.

As the bartender turned away, Depoortere leaned in close and nipped the younger girl’s ear.

“You could earn them,” she whispered, sugar and aniseed.

Three nights into Worlds 2019, in a hotel in Paris, and two years after she had first approached the older woman, and Laure Valée did not know how to react. It wasn’t, of course, that she had never been flirted with, it wasn’t that she hadn’t had relationships before, she was 27-years-old, not some doe eyed adolescent, but how, she thought then, are you supposed to react to the propositions of someone you used to watch play _Unreal Tournament_ back in the ’90s?

But isn’t this what you wanted, a small voice inside her head whispered, isn’t this the reason you’re here? No, she quickly shook her head, she was here to shine a light on the players, to be professional, not to flirt with her colleagues.

“Eefje, you’re drunk,” she said in that particularly no nonsense way of hers, that particularly, so she had been told, French way of hers.

Depoortere grinned and downed the glass in front of her, wiping her lips with the back of her hand.

“Horny, too,” she remarked.

This is what you wanted, that small voice whispered again.

Furtively, Valée looked around the bar.

How bad could it be, she asked again, where was the harm in it? I mean, people did much worse when blowing off steam after work, right? It wasn’t as if she was doing anything bad, they were both adults.

“What if someone finds out?” she whispered, her voice low and uncertain.

Depoortere snorted loudly and leaned back in her chair, pointing directly at the younger girl.

“You’re worried about _Froskurinn_ finding out!”

Valée blushed once more.

“I am not!”

She hated how everyone called Indiana Black solely by her handle, hated how the other woman commanded the room whenever she was present, calm and collected, effortlessly cool. Froskurinn, she thought, was someone’s idea of a boyfriend, not her, slight of frame, dark hair and nervous around those with more experience than her.

Eefje Depoortere waved a hand dismissively.

“Froskurinn’s not going to tell us what to do,” she remarked.

Froskurinn was definitely going to tell them what to do, Valée thought. She was just like that. 

The crowd in the bar was thinning out, the hour growing late. Depoortere leant forward in her chair.

“Wait, do you need me to rap about it? Is that what you’re waiting for?”

Quickly, Valée shook her head.

“No, Eefje, I definitely don’t need you to rap.”

Depoortere’s smile widened.

“_Yo_—” she began, lifting her hands up.

“Stop, please!” the younger woman said with urgency.

Depoortere smiled mischievously.

“Make me,” she said, tapping a finger against her lips.

Laure Valée trembled slightly, her breath short. The other woman, taller than her, far more experienced than her, had been the whole reason she had the passion to do what she did, and, lest she forget, the whole reason she had her job at all. 

“Your room or mine?” she asked hesitantly.

“_Mine!_” Eefje Depoortere shouted loudly, jumping out of her chair.

She turned and winked at the bartender.

“I’m going to get laid!” she said loudly.

Valée blushed but said nothing, and, still nervous, allowed the older woman to pull her by the hand towards the lifts.


End file.
